The Dark Canoe by Scott O’Dell

He stood at the wheel, lashed to it by a stout rope. Twice I crawled to him with a mug of water, which he drank, but he refused food. And as the second day dawned, with the fierce wind giving way to squalls of lightning and thunderous rain, he stood there still. His body bound to the wheel, his eyes never closing, he was like a lightning rod that draws off the storm’s fury. He saved us all.
    At noon or thereabouts the chubasco died away. The sails were set and we wore around and headed back for Magdalena. When we were through Rehusa Strait, Caleb called me aft.
    â€œTake the storm-tossed ship,” he said, “and bring her nigh the buoy which marks the Amy Foster . Aye, the buoy still floats there.” He handed over the wheel. “Thou hast seen, Nathan, how she was lost, that fine ship, and how she might have lived had our brother Jeremy hearkened to my words.”

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    There was no sign that a fierce chubasco had struck Magdalena. As the anchor went down and I lashed the wheel and looked around, everything was the same as I had seen it two short days before. The bay swept northward in a long, unbroken curve. To the east the endless marshes and their winding inlets lay unchanged under the hot sun. Nearer at hand, small waves wandered up the beach and beyond stood the mangroves, seemingly untouched.
    But as I looked closer, hoping the chest had ridden out the storm, I saw something that made me jump. Against the rocks at the north end of the cove, strewn with kelp and pieces of brush, was a pile of splintered wood. For a while I stopped breathing; I then saw that a section of the wood was painted white and was marked in red with the two letters of a name. It was a boat from the Alert , the one Troll had taken.
    In a moment, from a deep cave near the head of the cove, Troll appeared. He walked down the beach to the edge of the water and stood there, shading his eyes against the sun, staring out at the ship. I don’t know who went over to pick him up or when, but I do know that he was there for supper, sitting by himself at the table near the galley door, and in the foulest of tempers.
    Nor had his temper changed when we went out at dawn to dive again. He seated himself in the launch without a word, his shoulders hunched around his ears. When he did speak it was with a bite to his words.
    My brother glanced at him now and again, and after an especially sharp command, which Troll shouted at Old Man Judd, cleared his throat. It is possible that he just remembered that the ship had sailed off and left Troll behind, alone on the island.
    â€œPouting art thou,” he said. “For whatever reason? Oh yes, because we went to sea and saved thy ship. Whilst thou lived snugly upon the shore. What, tell me, wert thou about when the wind came and we needed thee aboard?”
    Troll’s ears grew red and he began biting his lips.
    â€œWhat, tell me, wert thou about there on the shore,” Caleb went on, “when we needed thee aboard? Stretching thy legs? Gathering seashells? Snooping out trouble? Whichever it was, Mr. Troll, henceforth give thy attention to the ship. Recall that this is the season of storms.”
    Afterward, Troll left off his shouting and for the rest of the day seemed in a better mood, at times, when my brother was around, even lighthearted. But at supper he left his food untouched and went above to pace the deck.
    Judd and I decided that it was not wise to go to the cove that night, with Troll prowling up and down, on the watch for whatever we might do. There was a chance that he had found the chest. We agreed, however, that I should tell Caleb about it once more and ask his advice, which I did without delay.
    â€œThou think it a Spanish chest,” Caleb said. I had found him again at the door of his cabin, looking across the water at the place where the Amy Foster lay. “Three paces in length and half as wide? Large for a chest, I’d say. Did thou tell me it hath the